


The Reckoning

by SlytherinsDragon



Series: Kinky Holmescest [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, Angst, Dom!Mycroft, Dom/sub, Edgeplay, Feels, Flogging, Jealousy, M/M, Mycroft's Umbrella, Object Insertion, Possessive Behavior, Post-Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, Table Sex, Top!Mycroft, Whipping, holmescest, sub!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 16:53:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24370135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/pseuds/SlytherinsDragon
Summary: When Sherlock saw that the door knocker had been straightened, he knew that Mycroft was already waiting for him upstairs.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Series: Kinky Holmescest [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1758976
Comments: 16
Kudos: 199





	The Reckoning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyGlinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/gifts).



> Some late night filth from me.

When Sherlock saw that the door knocker had been straightened, he knew that Mycroft was already waiting for him upstairs. Of bloody course, he leaves the country (alias or not), and big brother knows. Big brother knows that he had gone to Pakistan to save Irene. 

And that Irene isn’t dead. 

However, it isn’t just big brother that is waiting for him upstairs. It is  _ Master. Master  _ sitting casually in Sherlock’s armchair with his legs crossed. Mycroft had changed out of his three-piece suit into an artfully ripped maroon shirt, and a pair of black trousers which had made all the difference between the two identities. Is he insane? Sherlock wonders – knowing that John or Mrs. Hudson could return and come up here at any point. 

They have never played at Baker Street. 

The risks of being discovered are too high. 

But this is a game of trust. 

Sherlock knows that he has broken  _ Master’s  _ trust, perhaps irrevocably.

It hadn’t been intentional. Sherlock had only planned to rile him up a little, but he had never been one for self-control. A terrible  _ (wonderful) _ trait for a submissive to have. 

And… it would kill him if  _ Master  _ did decide to end this between them. God, how had he not thought about this possibility until now? It seems inevitable that he will push  _ Master _ too far one day, if not already. He blinks away a tear threatening to leave his eye and without another thought sheds his Belstaff, scarf and gloves – takes the several steps to the space waiting for him between  _ Master’s  _ legs and kneels with his wrists crossed behind his back. Respectfully, he keeps his head bowed – his eyes to the floor. He is a tad too overdressed, but he doesn’t know the rules of playing here in his humble abode. 

Whatever the consequences are, he will take it. And he will take it, willingly. 

Because, the alternative is simply too terrible to contemplate. 

Sherlock doesn’t know how long he kneels there, but it feels like an eternity.  _ Master  _ gives no indication that he is even aware of Sherlock’s presence. His knees are starting to ache, but he keeps silent. He’s not even listening for the sounds of John or Mrs. Hudson. That’s irrelevant. Not his problem to worry about. Any adrenaline rush or exhaustion that had remained from that trip to Karachi had long dissipated. 

It’s only  _ Master  _ and him now. The only two beings that matter in this universe. 

When  _ Master  _ does speak, his question sends a rippling ache throughout Sherlock’s chest. “When was the last time you ate?” 

No pet name. No endearments. Neutral tone. 

“I…” Sherlock thinks hard for a moment. He cannot recall. “I don’t know… sir.” He hadn’t called  _ Master,  _ sir for almost a decade. But it seems appropriate for whatever this is. 

“Stay.”  _ Master  _ stands up without sparing a glance at him, and disappears into the kitchen. 

Sherlock stays. He understands what  _ Master _ is doing. It’s devastating regardless. The pain spreads from his chest to his belly.  _ Master _ is reminding him of what he stands to lose. 

Or what he  _ will  _ lose.

The stakes had never been higher. 

_ Master  _ comes back, bearing a bowl of soup. Chicken noodle. Perfect after a case, where Sherlock’s stomach hadn’t touched solid food in who-knows-how-fucking-long. A spoon is held out to him, and Sherlock eats without a complaint. Warmed perfectly. Delicious.  _ Master _ had made this himself and brought it here. The soup disappears quickly, and  _ Master _ places the bowl and spoon next to the armchair, on the floor. 

A hand slips into Sherlock’s curls, and Sherlock can feel his heart fracturing. He wants to sob. He hadn’t had this in so long. Weeks. He doesn’t dare lean into the caresses, like he usually would have. And then all too soon, _ Master _ pulls his head up by his hair, so that he is losing himself into those beautifully intense blue eyes. 

“Shall we talk frankly – then?”  _ Master  _ asks. 

“Yes, sir.” Sherlock says, his voice barely a rasp. 

He already wants to beg. Irene has nothing on  _ Master. _ The dominatrix had been right on the assertion that Sherlock is a submissive, but wrong in the sense that he is inexperienced. But, regardless, she had played him well. All too well. 

_ Master  _ pulls out a collar. His collar. Leather and gold. 

If he could get  _ Master  _ to put it around his neck, everything would be okay. 

But  _ Master  _ doesn’t. It goes on his lap. 

Sherlock’s heart sinks. The pain persists and oscillates. 

There’s no anger in  _ Master’s _ voice.  _ Master _ does not do things in anger, although Sherlock knows Mycroft had been furious. Angry. Hurt. Betrayed.

“It has become apparent to me that in the past few weeks, you have no regard for the collar that you chose to wear.”  _ And me.  _ “Is that true?”

“No, sir.” Sherlock won’t break down here. He won’t. He despises the tone that  _ Master _ uses – it’s devoid of any sort of emotion, as if he is talking to some ordinary goldfish about the weather.

“Then explain yourself. And make it good.”  _ Master  _ sits back now, having released his grip on Sherlock’s hair, causing him to fall back.  _ Master  _ crosses his arms. 

Fuck. Where does he even start? They both know what the explanation is. 

“I wanted to make you jealous.” Sherlock admits upfront. “And then… I fucked up.” 

There is a grim little smile on  _ Master’s _ face. It disappears quickly. “A rather big ‘fuck-up’, hm? Only a little matter of treason? A little betrayal of the  _ British Government?  _ All this for a pretty lady-Dom that you told me you didn’t care about? Yet, you risked your life to save her worthless hide? Shall I buy and give you a ticket to San Francisco now and find a new sub to warm my bed?” 

Irene is in San Francisco. Sherlock didn’t miss the emphasis on British Government either. 

_ Master  _ is serious. He pulls out a British Airways ticket for tomorrow afternoon with Sherlock’s name on it.

Sherlock breaks then. He sobs unrestrainedly. 

_ Master _ lets him cry at his feet for a bit, before asking. “Tell me the truth. Did you care about her at all?”

“Yes… but not in the way you think, Mycroft.” Sherlock sniffs loudly. 

“Oh?” 

“I rescued her because she was a good antagonist. A thank you for a game well-played. And because of her misplaced sentiment for me which caused her to lose. Just as sentiment will be my downfall here. I love you, Mycroft.” He falls to the ground, prostrate with misery – his arms wrapped tightly around  _ Master’s _ bare ankles. “I am so sorry. Please, forgive me, My. Please forgive your idiotic, thoughtless submissive.” 

“You begged twice.” Sherlock can hear the smile on  _ Master’s  _ face.

“You know I would only beg for you,  _ Master. _ However you wish it.” 

“I know, pet. I know.”  _ Master _ sighs. “Unfortunately, you did succeed in making me exceedingly jealous. I suppose it’s time to show you once again who you belong to after you go clean yourself out. I give you twenty minutes. Go.” 

“Thank you,  _ Master. _ ” Sherlock gets up in relief and runs for the loo. 

He can hear  _ Master  _ tear up the plane ticket behind him.

***

His table is cleared by the time Sherlock leaves his bedroom nineteen minutes later. The laptop, his books – various chemical reagents had been moved to the side table. Before he had time to puzzle out what was coming next,  _ Master  _ orders.

“Bend over. Hands flat on the table, arse in the air.” 

A punishment position. The cool air in the flat causes goosebumps to form on his naked skin. Sherlock quickly obeys – bending from his waist, separating his hands a strategic distance apart for maximum support. He spreads his legs, and makes sure his arse is presented properly for  _ Master’s  _ inspection.  _ Master  _ might be displeased, but at least he could remind him of how well-behaved and how willing to please he could be. 

“Good boy.”  _ Master _ walks around, examining him with open-admiration. 

Sherlock remembers how awkward this had been when they first started. He had been terribly insecure from years of bullying in public school, and having  _ Master’s _ scrutiny on him like this had made him conscious of all the visible flaws on his person.  _ Master  _ had bathed him in so much affection and love, worshipped his body in every possible way – did scenes where Sherlock was forced to look at his body through a mirror until he at least understood what  _ Master _ had seen in him from the very beginning. When he feels the soft leather of his collar being fastened around his neck, a tear falls involuntarily from his lacrimal duct – sliding ever so slowly down his cheek. A fingertip catches it, and tenderly strokes Sherlock’s cheekbone.

_ ‘Look at those cheekbones. I could cut myself slapping that face.’ _ Irene had said. 

Sherlock had rolled his eyes at that.  _ Master _ had already been there and done that – with his hands and big cock. 

“Sh… pet. Don’t cry.”  _ Maste _ r’s voice is a gentle caress. “I love you. You drive me crazier with every passing year, Lockie. I wanted to shove you against a wall at Buckingham Palace and fuck your impertinent arse until you screamed. Witnesses be damned. Do you want the blindfold?”

“Yes,  _ Master. _ ” 

Soft silk touches his face, and Sherlock is soon lost to darkness. 

“If your hands leave the table at any point, I will take it as a cue to stop. Understand?” 

“Yes,  _ Master. _ ” 

“You don’t need to count. The first few will be punishment. The rest – mutual pleasure.” 

Sherlock shivers. For him, there’s ‘good’ pain, and ‘bad’ pain. The former can make him orgasm untouched, the latter, excellent negative reinforcement. Mixing ‘good’ and ‘bad’ pain isn’t exactly a good deterrent, but it would probably make  _ Master  _ feel better about the situation. Which is probably the point.  _ Master  _ wouldn’t even fuck him during an actual punishment – let alone let him orgasm, but he is hopeful that this scene will come to a mutually satisfactory conclusion as it isn’t meant to be a punishment. 

The tongue of a leather-braided single-tailed whip slides down his spine.  _ Master’s _ specialty. He shudders – armed with the knowledge that this will hurt. 

_ Crack! _

A line of fire burns down his back. He gasps, focusing on keeping his hands in place. 

“Breathe, pet.”  _ Master  _ reminds him. “Inhale, exhale.” 

Sherlock does. 

Each stripe in succession feels like hot knives slicing open his flesh – cutting open his body, baring more of his soul for  _ Master’s  _ inspection. Draining the nasty abscesses that had accumulated throughout the last few weeks. It hurts less when  _ Master  _ moves to his bum, but the pain seems to spread further out. Being a masochist  _ (pain slut) _ has its perks though, each burning lash fuels a slowly simmering arousal curling deep within his loins. His neglected cock is already ridiculously hard. There is one time where Sherlock’s hand almost leaves the surface of the table, but he stops himself just in time. 

And then, he hears  _ Master  _ drop the whip, and he moans with pain and pleasure when warm palms and fingers massage at his back, rubbing at his welts with just enough pressure – while lips press sweet kisses down the curve of his spine. 

“God, you like this, don’t you, slut? Already so full and so hard for me?”

“Yes,  _ Master. _ ” Sherlock’s voice is quivery when a hand gently manipulates his scrotum, feeling each testicle in turn, and another hand leisurely pulls at his cock – a finger pressing into his slit and gradually drawing larger circles, making him plead for more. 

“Please.” He begs – feeling bereft, just as  _ Master  _ stands up and grabs something else. A mass of leather strands fall over his shoulder and tickle his cheek. The flogger. His flogger.  _ Yes. Please. Mycroft. Flog me. Mark me.  _ He moans, the anticipation spreading more warmth throughout his trembling body. 

_ Master  _ draws the strands over his back, before lightly smacking his flesh with quick strokes. Left. Right. Left. Right. Each touch that crosses a welt causes Sherlock to want to buck his hips slightly and whimper – just wanting more. It feels too damned good. Amazing. Those burning, painful lashes from earlier already a distant memory. 

_ Smack! _

Sherlock half yelps, half moans when the tendrils smack his bottom, agonizing the welts from earlier. And because  _ Master _ appreciates symmetry –

_ Smack! _

The other buttock gets the same treatment. And then he feels fingers spreading out his arse cheeks, and something hard rub against his hole. Another moan escapes him, he knows it’s the handle of the flogger. God – it’s been weeks since he had been properly fucked.  _ Please, My, fuck me. Fuck your needy slut.  _ A lubed finger toys with his rim, and he whines when the digit presses in firmly, feeling the ring of muscles grip tightly at the finger. A second pushes in, before the handle of the flogger makes its return, and  _ Master _ slides it relentlessly in. 

Despite it being nowhere near  _ Master’s  _ girth, it fills him. There is a texture to the rubber that seems to rub amazingly at certain sensitive spots, and soon he is shamelessly humping the whip, and an incredibly loud howl is wrenched from him when  _ Master _ deliberately turns the handle, forcing the smooth bumps of the handle to drag across his sensitive inner flesh. 

Good god. He’s literally seeing stars. 

It’s even better than the time  _ Master  _ had fucked him with one of his umbrellas, at the cost of Sherlock paying for its replacement. Even though Sherlock knows his brother had cleaned the aforementioned umbrella himself, and still uses it to this day. Probably gets off on having important people seeing his brolly, knowing that it’s handle had once been buried in his Lockie’s arse. Bonus points if someone unsuspecting touches it. 

And then the whip is pulled out, just as Sherlock feels the tension within him about to reach its zenith, and  _ Master  _ fucks directly into him with no other preparation. Possessively. The hot, pulsing cock stretches him mercilessly, and he keens at the invasion – his wails sure to be heard from the outside. 

“God, you are so fucking tight, Lockie.”  _ Master  _ groans, while muttering a few choice expletives. “Clearly I haven’t been fucking you enough.”

_ Yes. Yes. Claim me. Fuck me every day.  _ Sherlock grunts as he feels his hole give way with each successive thrust, and soon the pleasure overtakes the pain, and he thrusts back without abandon against  _ Master’s  _ cock, whimpering each time as his abused arse smacks forcefully into  _ Master’s  _ pelvis. His  _ Master’s  _ arms are wrapped around Sherlock’s torso for leverage, and it really does sound like two noisy beasts breeding in the wild. 

His own breathing grows increasingly stilted, and then  _ Master  _ changes up the angle – hitting his sweet spot just so perfectly, and Sherlock soon erupts with an unintelligible cry, his seed spilling onto the table and dripping onto the floor. Despite his bonelessness, Sherlock still braces himself against the table as  _ Master _ fucks him both brutally and through his orgasm, chasing for his own end. And then,  _ Master  _ pulls out and squirts all over his bottom – Sherlock having to contend himself with the drops of precious ejaculate running down into his hole. 

_ Master  _ catches him before he collapses, gently turning Sherlock so that his head could rest on his shoulder. The blindfold is removed. 

“God, Mycroft – that was amazing.” He pants. “You see why I have to go do these things? Jealousy inspires you so.” 

A whine escapes from him when  _ Master  _ pinches one of his nipples none-too-gently. 

“You are such a brat.”  _ Master _ says, ever so fondly. 

A hand tilts his chin, and soon they are kissing. Sherlock kisses desperately, trying to rememorize all the critical details of his lover’s lips, before a devious tongue slips into his mouth and plunders deep, teasing his own tongue with tender little touches, and retreating when Sherlock tries to do the same. Soon, they are snogging ardently on the armchair – one of Sherlock’s hands entangled in  _ Master’s _ dark hair, and the other had unbuttoned the top few buttons of the ripped maroon shirt, eager to comb its way through  _ Master’s  _ furry chest. 

It isn’t long before Sherlock’s body remembers that it hadn’t slept in several days, and he rests in the sanctuary of  _ Master  _ or rather Mycroft’s arms. He had missed this so much, but with Moriarty and everything else going on, they hadn’t had time to meet up as often as they had used to. 

“We should clean up, brother mine.” Mycroft sighs regretfully. “Mrs. Hudson could be coming back soon. I sent a distraction that should occupy her for a good half of the day.” 

“I don’t want you to leave.” Sherlock whines. 

“I know. I don’t want to either.” 

A kiss gets planted on his forehead. Sherlock smiles sleepily. 

“Come over on the weekend. It should be quiet.” Mycroft offers silkily. “I will indulge you in every way so that you don’t have to pull this nonsense in the future.”

“Mm… I’d like that.” Sherlock replies, as Mycroft moves him aside, so that they could begin the arduous process of removing all the evidence of their deliciously illicit fuck from the flat. 

The ‘nonsense’; however, isn’t going to go away. Sherlock will continue doing bratty things for his brother’s attention, just as Mycroft will continue to ‘punish’ him for it. An old dance – whose variations had only grown more intriguing throughout the years – that Sherlock had learned ever since he could squawk the syllable ‘My’ from his crib. 

“So… am I forgiven? Or are you still going to find another boy to warm your lonely bed?”

His brother gives him a look that says  _ don’t be an idiot. _

Sherlock grins broadly, before reluctantly getting up to go clean up his semen from the table and place the bowl and spoon in the sink, so that Mycroft could get showered and changed. He goes into the loo to shower afterwards, and his brother stays so that he could tenderly apply salve to Sherlock’s abused back and bum. Before Mycroft leaves, he tucks his Lockie into bed, and gives him a goodnight kiss. 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [When Big Brother Was Utterly Displeased](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24374134) by [LadyGlinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda)




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